The One Where Colonel Forster Took Another Cup Of Coffee
by Laure001
Summary: Lydia didn't run away with Wickham. So when Darcy went to visit Elizabeth at the inn in Lambton, he didn't find her in tears, but ready to have a reasonable conversation. Darcy was clearly determined to say… something… to Elizabeth, that morning. But what? - Now complete!
1. The right, respectable way

One day, at breakfast, in Brighton, Colonel Forster decided to have another cup of coffee. This trivial decision changed everything. Because the Colonel stayed longer in the breakfast parlor, when he exited it afterward, it was just in time to see a letter delivered to Lydia – from Wickham. The colonel confiscated it, he read it; Wickham's plans were thwarted, Lydia didn't run away.

This means that when Elizabeth met Darcy again at Pemberley, her stay wasn't interrupted by the news of Lydia's elopement. And when Darcy went to visit Elizabeth at the inn at Lambton, that morning, when Elizabeth was alone in the little parlor, reading Jane's letters, he didn't find her in tears, but ready to have a reasonable conversation.

Darcy was clearly determined to say… something… to Elizabeth, that morning.

But what?

Different ways this conversation could have turned out...

-X-

**Option One:** _the right, respectable way_

When Mr. Darcy entered the parlor in his own peculiar and decided way, Elizabeth was seated on the blue chair near the sofa, quietly reading. She smiled and stood up.

"Good morning, Mr. Darcy," she said amiably. "Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner have walked to the church. I am just reading some letters from Jane."

"Good morning, Miss Bennet," he answered. He walked to the middle of the room, and… stopped. In the early days of their acquaintance, Elizabeth would have been taken aback, but she was more used to his ways now. She drew a chair for him – still smiling.

"Will you not sit down?"

"No." He clasped his hands behind his back and watched her for a moment, with an impenetrable look. "I hope Miss Bennet is in good health?"

"She is," Elizabeth answered, thinking that it was not the first time Mr. Darcy had barged into a small parlor, while she was alone, reading Jane's letters – she felt color rising to her cheeks, and continued, "Please thank your sister for the extremely pleasant afternoon we spent together yesterday, Mr. Darcy. You weren't exaggerating. Georgiana plays beautifully."

"She does," Mr. Darcy replied, but his attention was clearly elsewhere. "Miss Bennett, I was hoping I would find you alone."

Elizabeth was too embarrassed to reply. Mr. Darcy took two steps forward, was silent for a few moments more, then started to say, in a very formal tone,

"Miss Bennet, I didn't come to renew my addresses to you – not yet, at least." She could only look at him. "I know it is too early for such a step. But my feelings for you are unchanged. Your refusal in Hunsford made your opinion of me extremely clear, but I want… I wish…" His voice broke, briefly, he paused, then started again, "I would like the opportunity to try to change your mind. I could visit you at Longbourn, if you… If you allowed it…"

He stopped – maybe his speech was over, or maybe he had just lost his nerve. Elizabeth's composure was quite lost too – she was seized by contradictory emotions – his gaze had not left her – she realized, after a few moments, that he was waiting for her answer.

"Mr. Darcy," she began, her voice unsteady, "I…" She felt that her hands were slightly trembling. "Please, allow me first to apologize for my conduct at Hunsford. I am so ashamed of it now. When I read your letter, I…" She paused, looking for words, and forgetting them all when she saw the intensity in his eyes.

"You… believed me," he commented, after a while. "You trusted my version of the events."

"Of course."

"I thought so yesterday, but I was not entirely sure…" he said, his voice very low, "you hated me so much."

"I did," she said, with a short tense laugh, "but…" The voices of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner resonated in the hall.

"Where is Elizabeth?" Mrs. Gardiner was saying, in a hurried, worried tone. "We must tell her to pack – she has to be ready as soon as possible…"

Darcy and Elizabeth both looked toward the door – Mr. Darcy was not very close to Elizabeth, but he still took a step back – the door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner entered, looking rather distraught.

"Elizabeth," Mrs. Gardiner explained, in a strained voice, "I am so sorry – we have to alter our plans. We have received the most dreadful news from London. One of our warehouses burned down – we must leave at once."

Elizabeth exclaimed – and asked about the workers, and Mr. and Mrs. Salers, who oversaw the place, "We don't know much yet," Mr. Gardiner explained, while his wife was already starting the necessary arrangements, giving hurried orders to servants, "Mr. and Mrs. Salers are unharmed, but we don't know about the others…" Mr. Darcy asked questions, and offered his help, but there was nothing he could do, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had to go back to town as soon as possible, and Elizabeth had to follow – she ran back to her room, fortunately, she hadn't much to pack – when she came down again Mr. Darcy was conversing with Mr. Gardiner about insurance matters and the parlor was in a flurry of activity, servants coming and going. Mr. Gardiner went to his wife, Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth.

"Our conversation was interrupted," he said, in a low voice. On his right, Martin was carrying Mr. Gardiner's trunk. Near the door, the coachman was having a heated discussion with the innkeeper concerning the horses.

"Yes," Elizabeth answered, in the same tone. Then, "Yes. My family and I would be honored to receive your visit in Longbourn, sir."

He watched her for a few moments – they were very close – sharing a strange intimacy in the crowded, noisy room. "Miss Bennett, I seem to have some difficulty interpreting your statement. Is it politeness?"

She looked at him, trying, but not succeeding, to hide her emotion. "No." She took a breath. "I made a hasty, foolish judgment," she continued - she couldn't hold his gaze and decided to stare at the floor instead, "I am happy for… grateful for… any possibility of… renewing our acquaintance," her cheeks were burning now - there was a silence – and then Darcy took her hand in his, and didn't let go.

He didn't let go when Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner left the parlor – he just lowered his arm, so their hands were hidden between the two of them - fortunately the Gardiners were so preoccupied they didn't pay real attention to their niece; he didn't let go when the trunks were carried out, one by one – it took some time, one of the trunks was not closed properly – servants were exasperated; Darcy and Elizabeth didn't even look at each other, she felt her heart beating so fast – meanwhile the innkeeper and the coachman's dispute had deteriorated into angry yelling. Darcy turned to her, "Can I escort you outside?" he breathed, she nodded, so he had to let go of her hand, at last, to offer his arm, they walked through the main dining room in a perfectly respectable manner – except maybe a bit slowly – and in absolute silence. Outside - the horses and the mud and the bustle – and soon the angry voice of the innkeeper - the trunks were installed, and then the carriage had to be moved a few feet because – the reasons were unclear, or maybe Elizabeth was not paying attention – anyway – the horses moved, and for a few moments Darcy and Elizabeth found themselves alone in the interval created by the inn on one side and the left door of the carriage on the other.

It was just a few seconds, he took her hand again, he seemed ready to say something – there was a deep emotion on his face – unfortunately, Mrs. Gardiner chose that moment to call her niece. Darcy ignored the interruption, "Is there a chance," he began – "Elizabeth!" called Mrs. Gardiner in a worried voice, Elizabeth held Darcy's hand tighter – their eyes locked – but Mr. Gardiner was walking toward them – Elizabeth threw a last look at Darcy, and left.

Mr. Bingley's return to Netherfield was announced less than ten days after.


	2. Not that respectable

**Dear readers, I have now published two Pride and Prejudice Variations, under the name Laura Moretti! One is called "The Governess" and the other "Do you love me?" Both Elizabeth/Darcy happy endings, of course. **

**And now, back to this story... :) **

**Option Two:** _not that respectable_

When Mr. Darcy entered the parlor in his own peculiar and decided way, Elizabeth was curled on the sofa, her legs up on the cushions, revealing her stocking-clad ankles in an unfortunate manner. Mr. Darcy's brusque entrance gave her no time to rectify her position before being seen, she blushed, jumped on her feet, and stammered.

He had stopped, and was staring at her – impenetrable as always. Elizabeth couldn't know how she looked at that moment, her cheeks slightly flushed, curls escaping her hair where she had rested her head against the side of the sofa. But it was not so much her physical appearance as much as her discomposure which moved him so deeply. She had always been so proper in his company, distancing herself from any emotion with politeness and wit – now, for an instant, that barrier had disappeared – so without knowing what he was doing, he crossed the distance that separated them, put his gloved hand on her cheek and kissed her.

It was a light kiss – his lips just touched hers, but it was a lingering one – she didn't react, but didn't move away either – after a while, he stepped back.

And they just stood there, facing each other.

Elizabeth couldn't talk, couldn't even breathe. She had difficulty comprehending what had just happened – he seemed a little stunned, and his colour was high – he turned away, took a few steps towards the fireplace – she felt she should protest – disapprove – she should tell him that he couldn't take such liberties – no, really, she should leave the room, call the servants – but – he spoke first.

"I… Obviously I apologize, Miss Bennet. I… This is not the reason I came here this morning."

"Why – did you come, Mr. Darcy?" was her attempt at formality.

"I had a speech prepared." Elizabeth waited for the rest, but it didn't come. She decided to face him, and finally met his eyes, trying to look composed – her voice betrayed her.

"What was the speech?"

"I fear it has quite escaped my mind at the moment."

She laughed – a strangled, tense laugh – yes, she had to protest – but words were quite escaping her too – worse, her own confused emotions were overwhelming her rationality.

"I was going to ask for a second chance, Miss Bennet," Darcy said, brusquely. "Of course I know it is too early to… Our previous interactions, at Rosings, were so very lacking, but… I still… love you, and…" He stopped, shook his head. "Forgive me. The speech was better."

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. "I cannot imagine that," she whispered, then looked right at him – he stared, then took two steps towards – and kissed her again.

Involuntarily, her hand found his shoulder and clutched his arm - slightly - she felt her body shivering- she had never been kissed, she didn't know how she ought to respond - but she felt... No - she had to stop this, she would stop - in a moment - the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner resonated in the hall.

"Where is Elizabeth?" Mrs. Gardiner was saying. "We must tell her to pack – she has to be ready as soon as possible…" Darcy and Elizabeth separated instantly – the voices were growing closer –

"Can I write to you?" he said, earnestly.

"Yes," Elizabeth answered, without thinking, then she put a hand to her brow – "No. I can't…" Her head was hurting, they were not engaged, exchanging letters would be very improper – but – somehow it seemed that her entire future was at stake, "Yes," she repeated, meeting his eyes again, "I will... find a way… Yes."

"Thank you," he said, softly, and seemed to want to take her hand into his – but the door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner entered, looking very worried.

"Elizabeth," said Mrs. Gardiner, "we had the most dreadful news from London. One of our warehouses burned – we must…" She stopped, seemed to realize the situation she had walked into – Elizabeth face flushed, Mr. Darcy quite pale, the two young people embarrassed and suspiciously close to each other.

"Good morning, Mr. Darcy," Mrs. Gardiner added, after a pause. "What a surprise to see you here. So," she continued slowly, watching them, "Elizabeth – we must leave at once."

"The warehouse burned?" Elizabeth repeated, horrified – she asked, at once about the workers, and Mr. and Mrs. Salers, who oversaw the place. Mr. Darcy rallied enough also to enquire about the building, the possible victims, and the insurance. Mr. Gardiner answered politely, but coldly – he was staring at Darcy with disapproval – horribly embarrassed, Elizabeth ran in her room to pack – and remained there for a while, to try to regain a semblance of calm.

When at last she came down, Mr. Darcy was still there – to her utmost surprise. The room was a flurry of activity. Mrs. Gardiner was handling the innkeeper's bills, Mr. Gardiner was overseeing the loading of the trunks, and Elizabeth felt both her uncle and aunt's eyes on her when Mr. Darcy resolutely crossed the room to meet her. "Mr. Darcy," Mr. Gardiner said in a stern voice, "it is time for us to go to the carriage now. Are you ready, Elizabeth?"

"I'm just saying good-bye to your niece," Mr. Darcy said, in a tone that suffered no contradiction – Mr. Gardiner would have contradicted him anyway, but Elizabeth had already held out her hands – Darcy grasped them – their eyes locked, "I will see you soon," Darcy whispered – and then he was gone.

"Do not mind your uncle, he's distraught," Mrs. Gardiner discreetly whispered to Elizabeth, while they were climbing into the carriage. "You'll tell me more tonight."

Elizabeth closed her eyes – her heart bursting with wishes and unformulated hopes.


	3. Rather Scandalous

Note: Don't miss Chapter 2, "_Not That Respectable,_" that I posted yesterday. :) Also, know that I am slowly setting the ratings higher and higher at each chapter. :)

\- X -

**Option Three: **_Rather Scandalous_

Elizabeth had the most violent headache that morning. Then she hit her toe on the foot of the bed. Breakfast was cold, the weather was foul, tea didn't help. When Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner went out to see the church, she took refuge by curling up on the sofa, hoping to read her letters. Then Mr. Darcy interrupted her solitude by entering the parlor in his own peculiar and decided way. She was so surprised that she started and hit her head on the side of the wall.

Wincing in pain, Elizabeth stood to welcome her guest in a voice full of exasperation:

"Good morning, Mr. Darcy."

Why did that man always barge on her, when she was not ready? She had been so often surprised by his unannounced arrivals. The thought crossed her mind that she would have liked to be better prepared, to what purpose exactly, Elizabeth couldn't say – she simply felt that the way he saw her was important – and that realization put her in an even worse mood, if possible, by the consciousness of her own weakness.

Mr. Darcy did not move. He stood there, watching her, in that neutral, impenetrable way he had – that man really went out of his way to make her aware of her own inadequacies – Elizabeth's vexation grew.

"Will you not sit down?" she asked – her voice ice cold.

The chill in the room was tangible.

He obeyed – his face perfectly expressionless. "I was just reading some letters from Jane," Elizabeth explained.

"Miss Bennet is in good health, I hope."

"She is."

"And all your family?"

"Yes." This was the most stilted, embarrassing, conversation they ever had, and there were many to choose from. Frustrating man! But she had to make an effort: "Please thank your sister for the lovely afternoon we spent yesterday." Even that sounded cold. Well it was his fault, for being so… Elizabeth tried to rally her spirits. "She is really a very proficient player."

"She is." Darcy stood up, brusquely. "I am sorry. This was a mistake. Good day, Miss Bennet."

On these words, he exited the room – Elizabeth remained transfixed – she had seen the flash of pain on his eyes – and with rapidity of thought, she considered why he had come.

"Wait!" she cried – she ran to the door – he must have heard her, because he had stopped only a few feet away, in the middle of the dining room. Sarah, who was tending to the tables, gave them a curious glance. Another servant (Martin was his name) was loitering not far – Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth with a detached, haughty expression, but she held his gaze without flinching.

"You have forgotten your gloves, sir," she said.

He looked at his gloved hands, then raised his eyes, and said, with as precise, spiteful tone: "No. I haven't."

She could have strangled him here and there. "You have forgotten your _other_ gloves, sir," she insisted, still looking right at him. Martin and Sara were unabashedly watching them now.

Darcy walked to the door of the parlor – but he did not enter.

"We have nothing more to say to each other, Miss Bennett," he stated in a low voice.

"Do I have to beg you to continue this conversation, Mr. Darcy?" she whispered.

He looked at her with astonishment – then stepped inside the room. She pushed the door behind him but didn't close it entirely. Her consciousness of the situation – her face must be bright red – she was deeply ashamed of her breach of propriety – of her lack of self-respect, even – but she forged ahead.

"Mr. Darcy," she tried, her voice slightly unsteady, "I have much to apologize for. First for my indecent display in calling you back here."

His expression was so disdainful, Elizabeth had to pause again to gather her thoughts.

Mr. Darcy's inexplicable anger was evidence that her interpretation was correct. He would never have betrayed such emotion if this visit had been just a friendly call, which meant…she thought… she only had this one chance. If he believed she had rejected him a second time – then it would be truly over.

"Please let me try to explain – I believe that my bad mood of this morning drove you off… while… I do wish for our friendly acquaintance to continue – and…"

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated, surprised.

"Why do you wish our acquaintance to continue?"

He was staring pitilessly at her – she was at a loss for words.

"Sir, I…" She couldn't think of a respectable answer and panicked. "You must allow we ladies to have our little mysteries," she finally uttered.

There was a tense silence.

"I was giving you too much credit, it seems, Miss Bennet," he finally declared, his face more haughty, angrier than ever. "Here I was thinking that despite our disagreements, you had a frank, loyal character. It seems I was wrong."

Elizabeth was stunned.

"I thought that you weren't the type to trifle with a man's affections. Clearly I was mistaken."

She became very pale.

He was glaring at her, waiting for an answer. She didn't avert her eyes, she was too furious to be cowed; many angry, bitter retorts flew through her mind – and…

She uttered none of them.

Yes, there was rage in his eyes – and spite – but also, fear. Fear of the outcome, fear that he'd lose her, maybe – and there was also – a subdued expectation? And – he hadn't left – it would have been perfectly comprehensible after such a discussion, but he was still there… In Elizabeth's mind, rationality was slowly winning the day over her desire to retreat from his seeming indifference. She would make herself clear, even if that meant exposing herself to his ridicule.

Because… what he had said – between the rage and the reproaches – was very much akin to a declaration.

She took some steps toward the back of the room and remained deep in thought for a moment.

"I apologize, Mr. Darcy," she finally declared, turning to him with a smile. Now he was the one who looked stunned. "Indeed, my last sentence sounded a lot like something Miss Bingley would say."

She didn't get an answer. She looked at him – his anger had vanished and he was now staring at the fireplace with a deep sadness on his face. Maybe he too had realized what he had just unwittingly revealed – and suddenly she could not bear it anymore – all those misunderstandings, his pain, she walked to him, took his hands in hers.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, the emotion audible in her voice, "we don't have to fight. I was at fault at the beginning – and I apologize again, wholeheartedly – but please – this conversation does not reflect well on either of us: I am making jokes rather than communicating while you hide your purpose behind severity. Our disagreeable exchange is senseless, really... Please, let us be friends."

He froze for a brief moment, incredulity playing on his features – then he clasped her hands with a strong emotion. "Miss Bennett," he started…

The voices of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner resonated in the hall.

"Where is Elizabeth?" Mrs. Gardiner was saying. "We must tell her to pack – she has to be ready as soon as possible…" Darcy let Elizabeth's hands go, and took a few steps back – the door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner entered, looking rather distraught.

"Elizabeth, said Mrs. Gardiner, "we had the most dreadful news from London. One of our warehouses burned down – we must leave at once."

Elizabeth exclaimed – and asked about the workers, and Mr. and Mrs. Salers, who oversaw the place, "We don't know much yet," Mr. Gardiner explained, while his wife was giving orders to Sara and Martin, to start the necessary arrangements. "Mr. and Mrs. Salers are unharmed, but we don't know about the others." Mr. Darcy asked questions, and offered his help, in what Elizabeth could recognize was a very strained voice, but there was nothing he could do.

Elizabeth ran up to her room to pack – when she came down again Mr. Darcy was conversing with Mr. Gardiner about insurance matters.

The parlor was a flurry of people, coming and going, carrying trunks. Darcy stayed on the other side of the room. Then the carriage was announced, they all went to wait outside. They arranged themselves on the street, but there was a delay, the innkeeper was fighting with the coachman – Elizabeth was restless – she had to talk to him before… Then she met his gaze. "I forgot my gloves," she declared, and blushed fiercely – she walked back inside.

Fortunately, no one seemed to notice her absence. The fight outside worsened, the innkeeper was yelling, people were taking sides. She went into the parlor – her heart beating – she felt hot – burning – of embarrassment – and other feelings – hoping he would understand – hoping he wouldn't – what would he think of her? Ten seconds passed, then suddenly he entered the parlor.

Sara had put out the lamp and the room seemed dark reflecting the dreary day, or maybe it was Elizabeth's imagination. "Mr. Darcy, we didn't finish our conversation," she started, "we…" He walked to her directly, looming over her and crowding her against the wall. She thought he was going to kiss her, but he just put his hands on her shoulders, before whispering,

"I don't know what you want."

"I don't know either," she breathed back – there was despair, or hatred, in his eyes. He caressed her neck, her cheeks, feverishly, and suddenly he kissed her – not a gentle kiss, he was harsh, almost as if he wanted to hurt her, pressing her body against the cold stone, moving his lips against hers, his hands hungry. She found herself answering in kind – her hands cupping his face, her body responding by pushing against his. The encounter only lasted a few seconds – then she stopped, horrified with herself, they detached, both stunned, looking at each other, stammering apologies, "I must go," she said in a trembling voice. "Of course," he answered, and then they were kissing again, violently, again, and when they stopped, they stayed immobile for a while, their foreheads touching.

"Should I go talk to your father?" he asked, his voice a little raspy.

"No… at least not yet."

He stepped back. She saw the now familiar flash of pain on his face, and she quickly added, "Please, listen before accusing me again of being a coquette."

His face had returned to his mask of haughty indifference – she hated it, but bravely continued.

"Mr. Darcy, please understand my confusion. You are not the same man than I met before – I don't know you – I want to know you – accepting a husband is such an important decision– my entire future, my entire happiness is at stake... And – yes - I have to admit… You and I… We have… This last… interaction proves that we share a…" She stopped, searching for words, and saw with vast relief the flicker of amusement in his expression.

"Yes, Miss Bennet? We share a…? Please define."

She blushed. "It seemed we did things backwards, Mr. Darcy," she finally succeeded to explain. "This kind of conduct is forgivable, I suppose, at the end of an engagement, when both parties have become very acquainted with each other… but..." She blushed even more. "Can we… get to know each other? Start at the beginning? Perhaps you could visit Longbourn?"

The amusement had left his eyes. He paced the room for a while. "You don't know me?"

"Not as I wish to, sir."

"And my anger and insults during two of our primary encounters have not, I suppose, allowed you to sketch my character in a positive way."

The words were cold, but she was now learning to appreciate the sensitive emotions behind his blunt manners. She shook her head. "No – that's – I am as guilty as you are. We seem to both have rather intense, passionate characters. Maybe that doesn't bode well for us, in fact. If we… if we ever… if we come to, er, an understanding…"

The amusement was back. "You mean, if we get married?"

"Yes," she whispered. Would she ever stop blushing?

He smiled, then crossed the distance between them to clasp both of her hands in his.

"On the contrary, Miss Bennet. I think it bodes very well."


	4. Later, at Longbourn

Dear Readers, two things:

1 – As I told you at the beginning, there are five options written… five different ways that scene at Lambton Inn could have turned out. The "story" stops at Option Five, but… it's because I ran out of ideas. Which means I am open to prompts!

2 – This chapter is not one of the five options, it is an interlude. It works as an "After" for any of the first four options. So just imagine this scene is what happens after your favorite chapter. :)

**-X-**

**Elizabeth leaves in the carriage, with the Gardiners. She spends three days in London, then she goes back to Longbourn, and two days after her arrival there, she gets a letter.**

**-X-**

"Father," Elizabeth said, entering the Longbourn library, "I have to talk to you."

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book. "Of course, do come in, Lizzie." She entered, closed the door behind her, but remained near the entrance. "What is the matter?"

"I…" Elizabeth clearly hesitated. She raised the sealed envelope in her hand. "This morning, I received a letter from Mr. Darcy."

Describing Mr. Bennet as surprised would be an understatement.

"M. Darcy?" Then: "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Elizabeth took a reluctant step toward her father's desk.

"I, er, I haven't read it yet. But I would like to. And I did not want to do so without your permission."

"What… would that letter contain?"

Elizabeth took a pause before answering.

"I would suppose, a rather heated declaration of love, sir."

Her words were calm, but her gaze was very worried – she was clearly apprehensive about her father reaction. He regarded her, in silence, for a long time.

"We are talking about Mr. Darcy," he finally said. "The man who intimidated the whole neighborhood into stunned silence with his icy countenance? He wrote you a love letter."

"He is an extremely passionate man, as it turns out."

"And how," Mr. Bennet said coldly, "have you become aware of that fact, exactly, Elizabeth?"

She averted her eyes, took another step forward – now her father was looking increasingly worried. After asking permission to sit down, Elizabeth told him the whole story – almost the whole story: Mr. Darcy's declaration at Rosings, her refusal, the discussion with Mrs. Reynolds at Pemberley, her subsequent meeting with the owner himself, and their crucial conversation in the Lambton inn parlor – omitting, of course, certain intimate details of that last encounter. When she finished, her father didn't look as relieved as she had expected he'd be.

"And I suppose, you intend to encourage his suit?"

"Well I…," Elizabeth coloured, and stammered a little. "I am not quite ready to accept him yet, but I… I am certainly… I am now much more inclined to… I am indeed very glad that he…"

"Oh, for God's sake."

Mr. Bennet had stood up – he began to pace the room, with more emotion than his daughter had seen in him in a long time. "The word 'passionate,' Elizabeth, may be a pleasant one for a romantic young woman, but believe me, it is most unpleasant for a father to hear. Especially when the 'passionate' man in question is rich and powerful and have means that the father cannot counter."

"'Means'? 'Means' to do what? Father, Mr. Darcy is a respectable man…"

"A respectable man with a sizable fortune, who is making love to my beautiful dowry-less daughter behind my back, and who is _not_here, right now, in my study, asking for your hand."

"Because I told him to wait!" Elizabeth protested. "I told him I was not ready to…"

But her father was not listening. "What do you think will happen," he continued, "when you are alone in the woods somewhere, and Mr. Darcy talks about the misgivings of his family, and explains how much more convenient it would be if you were both to elope?"

"He would never…"

"And then there is an 'unexpected' incident on the way, and instead of going to Greta Green, you find yourselves in a _bedroom_ in London…"

"Father!"

"And after one night, two nights, three nights, when you keep asking, 'Are we going to the theater, this evening, dear? Are we getting married tomorrow as you promised?'… He explains to you that actually, you are not going to Scotland, no, you will stay in a beautiful little house in town, with all the pocket money that you want, and he will visit you once a week… and that, my dear, is actually not the worse possibility. There are much drearier options."

"Father – wait – please calm down."

Mr. Bennet turned to face her, his face angry and stern. "Are you saying that cannot happen, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth struggled to keep her calm.

"Father, I have never been naive. I am aware of the dangers of… In fact, I tried to talk to you about such possibilities when Lydia left for Brighton."

"I don't give a d…" M. Bennet stopped himself before he said something that even he would regret. He paused. "Lizzie, you have more sense than Lydia, yes. But you are also prettier than she is, and more to the point, the danger to you is real, not abstract. There is an actual wealthy man writing to you, right now. And, forgive me, my love, he has absolutely no rational reason for wanting to marry you."

Elizabeth blanched, of humiliation and anger. "He proposed. I refused."

"Maybe he wants revenge."

"No. _No._ He would never…"

"Maybe he is sincere now, and infatuated enough that his intentions are indeed honorable. But he will get you all…" Mr. Bennett had a vague gesture. "He will seduce you with the idea of his 'love,' of this marriage, until he sees that you are in his power, and then he realizes – he can have both! Your favors, Elizabeth, and the hand of a rich baronet's daughter…"

"_No!_" she cried, strongly enough for her father to pause. She had a strained laugh. "Now your concerns are becoming ridiculous. You don't know him, father. I met his sister, I met his friends – even his servants think highly of him… Don't you trust my judgment?" Elizabeth hesitated, suddenly struck by the realization that in her judgement, Darcy _was_ implicitly trustworthy. And yet she could not say how or when she had developed such a blind faith in the man. It was a strange thought.

A week had passed since meeting with Darcy at Pemberley, not to mention their 'conversation' at the inn – and she – there was not a night when his image had not haunted her.

"Should I?" her father said, with a sudden weariness, and she almost started. "Would you trust your daughter's judgment– should you – if the roles were reversed?"

Elizabeth shook her head in frustration as she stood to take her turn to pacing the room. She was tempted to recite a list of Mr. Darcy's admirable qualities or invoke heaven and earth to vouch for his affections – surely her father would be moved by her impassioned voice! But a moment's reflection caused her to reconsider. If her father suspected she were infatuated beyond the point of reason, he might stop trusting her altogether.

She took a deep breath. "What would you advise, sir?"

Mr. Bennet looked at her with surprise and relief. He sat down again – and was deep in thought for a moment.

"The problem is," he said slowly, "there is not much I can do, except for warning you. I'd like to think I'm smarter than the Capulets. If I go between you two, it will do more harm than good. You think that you are in love…"

"I am not…" Elizabeth realized the truth, and stopped talking. An unexplained warmth began to rise in her cheeks – the realization was staggering, but now was not the time to reflect on it – she took a few moments to gather her composure, and answered: "Your interference is not cruel enough to entice me to drink a flask of poison, sir."

"I am very glad to hear it." Mr. Bennet put his hand on his forehead and reflected for a while. "What if – you read your letter – which I can hardly prevent you from doing, Elizabeth, if I want to retain even a small part of your filial affection – and you answer it, but being careful to put clearly in writing the fact that he proposed to you, and that you answer only with the idea that you are engaged. That way, in case of any legal action, we would have written proof, and could…"

He left his sentence unfinished. Elizabeth was listening with astonishment. Then she said simply, but strongly:

"_No._"

Her father sighed. "Well. I didn't think so."

He shook his head. "All right," he added, after another long pause. "This is my final judgment on the matter. You will read your letter – pray, don't tell me what's in it – and you will answer him. In your answer, once you're done with the usual foolishness, mention that you told me of your correspondence, that I allowed that one letter, and that any and all other interactions will take place in Longbourn, in the vicinity of your family."

"Yes. Of course."

"Then, if he comes, I want to talk to him."

"Yes."

"All your outings will have to be chaperoned – by Jane, not by Kitty or Mary…"

"Actually, sir, Mary might be a good choice for what you have in mind."

Her father had a small – but genuine – laugh. "You are right. Maybe I will unleash Mary's scriptures on both of you. If that doesn't scare him away, I don't know what will. Anyway," he continued in a much more serious manner, "no more letters, no walk in the country alone, and no… 'liberties'…" – Elizabeth became bright red – "not even hands brushing before I have a signed marriage contract in hand. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said, so relieved that she would have acquiesced to anything. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Good, good," said her father, clearly as happy as she was to have reached an agreement – the whole interaction was all so bizarre. Elizabeth never fought with her father. She couldn't even remember a time where she hadn't been in his good graces, a trusted ally and confidant – and it suddenly struck her that of course the only thing that would divide her from her father, the only think that would make them disagree, even briefly, would be – well, a man – and, strangely, that was as it should be. Even if she went along with her father in this case, obeyed him even, because society and law required that she should, she was, in her heart, separated from him from hence forward. _I am an adult now_, she thought. From now on, she would make her own decisions.

She saw the sadness on her father's face, and realized that he had come, in the same time, to similar conclusions.

"I don't relish the thought of being separated from you one day, Elizabeth," he explained slowly. "But I want to thank you for trusting me, and coming to me with this quandary. I hope my strong reaction at first will not deter you for acting the same way if a similar issue should arise."

"I know not of any other eligible gentleman ready to ask for my hand, sir," she said with a smile. "I think I will have to do with this one." At that idea, a strong emotion seized her.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Bennet – who clearly didn't enjoy their current conversation any more than the thought of additional gentlemen coming for her. He gestured towards the door. "Well, you're a good girl, Lizzy, and I do trust you, mostly, even if I stated otherwise. Away with you now."

Elizabeth walked to the door. "And if you _do_ get engaged to a man of ten thousand a year," her father added, "wait till I am away from the house to tell your mother, please."

"I swear I will," Elizabeth said, smiling as she exited her father's study – thinking, for a brief, melancholy moment, that in a way, she was leaving forever.

Then she had to stop in the corridor, moved beyond all her expectations – the letter burning her hand – her heart beating so fast – at the idea of what was to come.


	5. Truths

_Dear Readers, this is the last chapter! Option 4 and 5 in one fell swoop. _

_For those who are interested, I will post in the comments to talk about possibilities and prompts._

-X-

**Option Four: **_Sleeping Beauty_

When Mr. Darcy entered the parlor in his own decided way, Elizabeth was asleep on the sofa.

Her head was turned away, the letters she read had fallen near her hand on the cushion.

Everything was peaceful: her face, the room. The leaves of the giant oak tree, outside the window, were perfectly still under the morning sun.

He took a chair and sat down – at a respectable distance – and just watched her.

So, this was the woman he loved. It was a strange consideration. After she rejected him, he thought he would put her easily out of his mind – that he had been stricken by a momentary madness, been swept away by a bizarre, feverish obsession.

But he had not forgotten her.

Again, it was bizarre. He had never been in love before, not with that intensity, and why it happened to be _her_, an insignificant country miss that he had met at an insignificant assembly ball – if he had decided not to visit Bingley at the time he would never have led eyes on her – but – no one could comprehend the mysteries of fate. Yes, after Hunsford, he thought he would never see her again – for weeks, months, his heart aching in an inexplicable way as if something was always missing, he saw her ghost at every ball, in every London street. Sometimes it was a smile, a laugh, the turn of a dress, or a sprightly figure walking under the trees of Kensington garden.

He was so very lonely. But then he always had been, responsibilities and yes, solitude, were familiar companions. But without her – without that mirage he had of her as his wife – that solitude suddenly felt sharper. The vision he had, of her at his side, forever united to him – that illusion had lasted only a few hours. He had decided to ask for her hand around three in the afternoon – she had crushed all his hopes around seven.

But she was back.

She was here. At Lambton, five miles from his home. She was real; she was sleeping only a few feet from him. And she had not behaved coldly, she had not been _disgusted_ by him, like she had been in his memories. (Sometimes, in his dreams, she was laughing, but that he couldn't control.)

No. She was – yesterday, at Pemberley, that evening had been – they had talked, they had smiled, she had sung and played, she really had seemed happy to see him – she _was_ happy to see him – she had been affectionate to Georgiana, and – when Elizabeth had looked at him, above the piano – hope was a merciless friend, it had kept him from sleeping at night – maybe it was why she was sleeping now, maybe the thought of him had also troubled her rest – he didn't believe it, not really – but still – as long as she was sleeping, she hadn't rejected him yet.

He could just watch her, and see.

See her, at Pemberley. In the vision they were married – he allowed, for a few minutes, the mirage to play again in his mind. The first thing he always imagined was both of them walking, along the lime trees, north of the lake. She would be on his arm – in this vision nothing untoward happened, there was just this strong sense of intimacy and trust, she would turn to him, affection in her smile, and – that was all, but the image had haunted him for weeks, in town, when he realized it would never happen – she would never have this light in her eyes when looking at him. Then, there were other visions. Visions of her in bed – he knew what bedroom would be hers, of course, as his wife. He knew the furniture, he knew the bed, she would be waiting for him – smiling – in his dream it was day, a bright morning, the rays of the sun playing on the white linens, everything in a white glow, he'd put his hands on her naked thighs and open them – yes, those dreams were pretty racy, well, he was eight–and–twenty, in full health, and quite lonely – he'd bite her breast, her belly, the inside of her thigh again, not too hard, and she'd laugh. Then the dream would suddenly shift, and it would be night, she'd be wearing one of those delicate lace nightgowns they made for brides, and he would be inside her – feeling all the curves of her body, their faces so close, illuminated by the golden glow of the candle, she would moan something, open his eyes and look right at him – and – let's say – well – generally, the dream ended there.

One day, he woke up in his room, in his London house. And she was there, in his bed. Sleeping, besides him.

Then he actually woke up.

His cousin, Fitzwilliam, frequented one of those "houses" and Darcy had accompanied him there once that summer. Darcy also had an arrangement with a girl – Margaret was her name. He was very generous with her, and honestly appreciated her, she was energetic and fun, with a lovely smile – he had promised her a good dowry, when she'd be tired of that life and wanted to marry an artisan or open a little shop.

But it was not the same after Elizabeth. He enjoyed Margaret's attentions, of course, but – the comparison was cruel. He kept sending money, and he no longer visited.

Elizabeth was still sleeping.

He could have caressed her, at that very moment, and she'd never be the wiser. He imagined his hands brushing lightly the contours of her breasts… those muslin dresses didn't do much to hide a woman's figure – of course he would never do such a thing – and then, he thought with a bitter smile, maybe he _actually_ never would.

Outside, a slight breeze was blowing. The leaves were rustling slightly.

Maybe he would never touch her.

Maybe they would never have endless discussions, in a low voice, on winter evenings, in front of the fireplace at Pemberley. Maybe he would never enter one of those dreadful London balls with her at his arm – she'd wear a dark red dress, with rubies in her hair, and her mere presence, her smile, would make the evening endurable, maybe even pleasant. Maybe she and Georgiana would never talk and laugh, on that blue sofa in the music room, after a late dinner, while he'd be silently watching, feeling that everything that was precious to him was there, in the room, while outside the wind blew in the cold autumn sky.

Maybe none of it would ever happen.

Elizabeth moved, and her eyes fluttered.

He stood up quickly.

When Elizabeth woke up, she was alone.

She stirred slowly, sat up, stretched her head. A few moments later, a light knock resonated on the door. "Please come in," she said, thinking it was Sarah – Mr. Darcy entered. Elizabeth was still a little dazed, and neglected to stand up to greet him.

"Please forgive me, Mr. Darcy" she said, with a tentative smile. She touched her forehead, her thoughts still a little confused. "I… I think I was sleeping."

He nodded. "I can come back later, if you wish." His tone was subdued; he was looking at her in a strange, earnest way.

And because she had just woken up herself, because she hadn't the time yet to invoke old doubts and fears, formality or manners, she was perfectly sincere herself, and said:

"Please stay. I am very glad to see you."

He took a chair, sat down, and just poured his heart to her.

**Option Five: **_Just wait_

"Hey. What are you watching?"

Elizabeth jumped to her feet, blushing.

"Oh, hey, hello… Hi, Darcy. Hum… Just a… I… don't really know, actually. A Regency bodice ripper movie… with actual bodice ripping?"

"Interesting choice."

There was a silence – she and Darcy, looking at each other, in that tiny lounge, at the far end of the modern lobby of the gigantic Italian hotel.

_God_. Those dreaded silences. With this man. Of course now – since yesterday – since Pemberley – those silences had taken a whole different signification. Or, to be honest – Elizabeth first had to rethink the significance of those looks right after Hunsford, five months ago. She had all the time in the world, after that disastrous encounter – no, wait – "disastrous" was not descriptive enough… After the _catastrophicanormous_, _abominaballistic_ declaration of Darcy's affections and her own abominaballistic reaction, she had to realize that his embarrassed pauses, and his looks, did not necessarily indicate… as intense a disapproval as she had previously thought.

But they were intense, all right.

And now, OF COURSE Darcy had just walked in on her watching a romantic… Ok, borderline erotic movie. "This wasn't my choice," Elizabeth explained, with an amused smile, (the key thing: NOT sounding embarrassed.) "The TV was on. We checked out early – my aunt went to visit the church – the XIIIth basilica, south of the piazza? So I settled here."

"To watch a Regency movie, where…" Darcy looked at the scene unfolding on the screen – fortunately the sound was off – but subtitles were on, "… where the lady is lying on the table of the parlor crying, 'Oh, no! My honor!' and the gentleman is answering, 'I would never compromise you' WHILE LIFTING HER SKIRTS. Now she is… fainting? Elegantly? And of course she has lipstick and mascara on."

"Like every 1798 respectable lady did," Elizabeth explained. "You missed the part where he tore her dress down and her breasts just… popped right out of her corset, 'firm as cantaloupes and white as sour cream.'"

He arched his brow. "Cantaloupes?"

"I was making my own voice over. In my head."

"Of course you were."

"Well, the heroine tore off his shirt first, so – it was only fair if he… you know," her voice faltered – maybe talking about a sex scene with Darcy was a bit… odd.

"Yes. As you said, only fair." There was a weird pause after that – her skin was not white as sour cream, Elizabeth thought, she was rather tanned (Italy will do that to you) and she was wearing an extremely pretty green summer dress, kind of revealing, which Darcy was NOT looking at – impressive how much he was keeping his eyes at face level right now. By the way, he was wearing a shirt. "Hum, well," he started, his voice rather uncertain, then he hastily added: "You're the history student. I've always wanted to know: Did ladies actually faint in those times? Or was it a big conspiracy of the females to entice the males and make them feel strong and powerful?"

"Definitely a conspiracy. But also, corsets impaired women's ability to breathe properly. Of course, this corset wasn't even in fashion during that period, but who is criticizing, right?"

"You are," he said, smiling.

"True. I am." Elizabeth answered his smile – silently thanking all the overwrought, ridiculous movies producers in the world – turns out, what a wonderful way to break the ice. "This said, Mr. Darcy," she continued, in a theatrical, formal tone, "I hope you know that I did not keep watching for my own pleasure." She gestured toward the TV. "This is… documentation. I am working – studying – right now."

Darcy couldn't get his eyes off of her – and he seemed so fucking amused. "Oh, really… Miss Bennet? Studying?"

"Absolutely."

"Please elaborate."

"Certainly. Don't be deceived. This is not a brainless romance. This is an intellectual film, a translation of an ironic misogynistic narrative into popular media, portraying archetypes in an intentionally caricatured way to imply a self-created sense of distance enabling the analytical deconstruction of clichés."

He was still looking at her – with so much affection.

"God, I missed this," he finally said. "I missed your insane capacity of making up words and entire… crazy… inane… meaningless sentences at the drop of a hat."

Elizabeth couldn't help laughing. "That is not very complimentary."

"Believe me, it is," he added, in a low voice – and then – you know it – another DREADED SILENCE, (©Fitzwilliam Darcy.) He was staring at her – she was staring at him – they were not that close – but not that far either – Elizabeth became a little nervous. "Last night was so great," she finally stated, in a low voice.

"It was great seeing you."

Her heart beat a little faster. "The party was so much fun. Beautiful, actually. And Georgiana is extremely sweet. A little shy, though, maybe?"

"Yes. Introverts. You know the type."

"Actually – no I don't. You met my sisters. And my mother."

Darcy grinned. "God, yes."

"They are not introverts, by any definition of the term. I'd even like to coin the term 'overextraverts.' No – no – wait – 'obnoxverts'." Elizabeth thought for a moment. "Jane is the exception in our family – but she does enjoy parties and people. She's just more discreet."

"I suppose," Darcy said slowly. He looked embarrassed, and Elizabeth remembered that there was an embargo on the "Jane" topic… on the "Wickham" topic… on the "Bingley" topic… for Christ's sake. But now Darcy was smiling again.

"See?" he said, with that tenderness in his eyes which made her – well – her knees were a little weak. "'Obnoxverts'. You do that effortlessly. And, um, speaking of words – Elizabeth, I wanted to mention yesterday – I love your blog. The adult fairytales?"

Elizabeth became so red – Lydia always made fun of her, that each and every emotion could be seen on her skin, like she was a swooning XIXe century heroine – it is not fun when you want to be project an image of sophistication and distance and your face betrays you every day.

"You follow my blog? I – it's just stupid, silly… The stories… They're just…" She stammered, and Darcy started again, with a little color on his cheeks, too:

"They are _not_ silly. They start cynical, because you try for a social critique, and you succeed – they are very funny – but they are also… tender. Kind. There is a humanity in them – they – they made me think of you…" Elizabeth became even more red – Darcy couldn't meet her eyes, he took a few steps toward the television – "you know, introverts," he started again, communication is not… their primary talent."

"I know," Elizabeth whispered.

"So, sometimes they… they want to express something… a… a deep… feeling," he continued, "and because they're not used to it, they can sound…"

His voice trailed off – she didn't answer – he turned to her, "I suppose what I want to say…" he continued, "would you like to have coffee with me sometimes?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answered. "Yes."

"Good." He smiled – still staring – she thought even an earthquake could not made him avert his eyes right now – and her face was – of course – crimson.

"Yes," she repeated again, smiling. "But – you are aware – that my plane leaves in three hours?"

He nodded. "I'm still hoping for a terrorist attack, and the airports to close. But – I meant – back in the States."

She couldn't stop smiling. "I live in Chicago. Isn't that a bit far from Manhattan?"

"I'll come."

"For coffee?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Good. Great," she answered, then, "Thank you," her heart was pounding in her chest – she sat down on the grey, impersonal hotel couch – he sat in front of her, on a chair, not meeting her eyes, and there was a good minute where nothing happened, "I just – had to see you before you left," he finally whispered, another silence – she was feeling too emotional to be logical – she suddenly blurted:

"There are things you don't know about me." She had spoken too low, and too fast, he looked at her, puzzled, so she smiled, trying to go back to her patented calm demeanor and arch humor, (©Elizabeth Bennet.) "There are many things I don't know about you either, Darcy. In fact, I don't know anything about you."

"What do you mean? We talked all the time, at Netherfield."

"I talked, you sneered. Well, I thought you were sneering."

A flash of pain fled through his eyes. "I was admiring," he whispered. "But you wanted to think the worse of me." She didn't answer – it was true. "So what don't I know about you?" he asked, his voice low.

"I…" She felt so embarrassed. "It's stupid. But it is something you should know before we have, um, coffee."

"I am officially intrigued," he said lightly – but his eyes were worried.

"I am slow," Elizabeth stated. "In… love, I mean."

"Slow?"

"I… I am a romantic, as you can guess from… the fairytales. And I… I fall in love very slowly, and when I do, it's important – essential – for me. Never casual."

He held her gaze. "This doesn't sound like bad news."

"Maybe, but it means… I need time… Many dates to… before… hopping into bed," she finally explained, the conversation couldn't be more embarrassing, so, you know – might as well go for broke. "Lydia says that my attitude – the jokes, the distance – are a posture, a barrier. She says that really, my way of – the fact that I'm laughing, all the time – she says I'm afraid of opening up – of intimacy. Maybe she is right. It's… There are so few people in the world that I love. And even fewer whom I really respect."

"I can relate," Darcy stated, slowly.

Elizabeth soldiered on. "I've only had two boyfriends – and I'm 24," she explained, thinking herself ridiculous for being self-conscious about her low number of partners – but, well, she was. "My high school sweetheart, and then I was with Frank for three years."

"I just had the one," Darcy said. "Girlfriend, obviously. We stayed five years together. And when we broke up, I didn't think I would ever…"

He didn't finish his sentence – Elizabeth gave an awkward laugh. "God. Talk of embarrassing. We are a couple of… I can't even make up a term."

"It took me months to realize I was in love with you," Darcy whispered, "and then months to do something about it. And then months to get over you – except I never did."

Elizabeth's heart hurt – physically hurt – except of course, no, her heart didn't actually do physically anything – but she was submerged an emotion so strong – maybe Lydia was right, maybe she was so controlled that real emotions, those that she couldn't contain or laugh away, were actually painful for her – she looked up – "Darcy," she began.

She stopped.

His face was ice cold. His eyes were focused on an open magazine, on the couch. There was a silence, and then he asked – in the in harshest voice she had ever heard:

"What _exactly_ are you reading?"

Elizabeth stared at him for a moment – then looked at the magazine – and blanched. "No… It's not…"

"_Fifty ways to seduce a rich man?_"

She was now red as the hotel cushions. "No… It's not… Darcy, I swear…"

"Is that why you came here?"

"What? No!"

"You… If you came all this way to Italy to…"

"No, of course not…"

"Is this why you showed up at Pemberley?"

Elizabeth stared at him, aghast, anger rising.

"Oh my God, Darcy! I didn't know you were there! I didn't even know you were in this _country_! My aunt's family is from Florence, she has known the Moretti forever, and… I told you, we had no idea you rented that villa… Oh my God," she repeated, "you and your fucking vanity!"

Darcy became very pale.

"I am sorry," he said. "Clearly, this was a mistake." He threw a last look at her and walked away.

_No._ Elizabeth ran after him. She caught his arm – he faced her, white as a sheet.

"Wait, Darcy, listen." She was still SO mad, but they couldn't leave it at that – it was crazy – everything had gone to hell so fast. He didn't say anything – just watched her, "Listen, you _moron_," she said, "that magazine was there, on the table. I saw it, and it made me smile, because – because of my mother, ok?" He didn't answer. "I thought – I thought, if she ever sees this, she's going to scan it and enlarge it and print it and placard it above all our beds, and… I didn't even read the article – but of course you would think – you – you are so…"

She stopped – before proffering a string of unladylike insults – he shook his head, paced the room, she could see him struggling, trying to make sense of his rage, "You don't know how it is," he answered, "How it is with women now… with everybody. Since we sold the start-up, people are just… People I thought were friends… Bingley, he gets hit up all for money all the time – by his family even – by his sister…"

"Oh, I'm sure," Elizabeth gritted through her teeth. "And this is why you separated him from Jane? Because you thought my sister was a Caroline? Jane was in tears for weeks because of that…" She stopped again – with an angry gesture – her next word was not going to be flattering to Caroline. "And me too? That is what you think of me?"

"No!" He had almost shouted, pain in his voice – and the realization, that maybe, he had just lost everything – again - after getting so close… "No. Not you," he added, his voice a little hoarse. "Never you."

Elizabeth shook her head, furious. "But you JUST said…"

"I know!" he protested, "I – just"

"You think you're God's gift to women?"

"No!" He shouted again, and looked at her with cold anger: "You've made me very aware that I am not."

"Oh, so you're still angry about…"

He grabbed her shoulder – like he was drowning – a moment of hesitation, then he kissed her – violently – she stumbled back, hit her back against the wall, and suddenly _they_ were kissing – violently again – she was gripping his arms and he was almost crushing her, kissing her everywhere, her brow – her eyes – her cheeks, she was breathless, "Forgive me," he whispered, "oh my God," she only breathed, she kissed him again, passionately, her hands framing his face, and they were lost – she was lost – they had turned around over somehow, he was against the wall now, they couldn't stop kissing and his hands were – everywhere – hers were too – she kissed his neck, bit his neck, he muttered something, then did the same thing to her – she tried to unbutton his shirt to – and ripped it – seriously, the buttons just – "Oh my God I'm so sorry" she stuttered, but he didn't care – didn't stop – they didn't stop – and it became a little – it became very – "wait, wait," she breathed, he stopped, he was red, disheveled, she certainly was too – she looked around – "here," dragging him in the empty conference room on the left – he began kissing her again the moment the door closed, there was a long grey conference table and somehow a fraction of second later they were on it – well she was on the table, he was – taking her dress down – ripping it a little on the process, revealing her bra, then her breasts, "it's only fair," he whispered, she laughed, while he was kissing her nipples and becoming a little crazy, but then so was she, she pulled him on the table with her just to feel his weight – and, ok, it was not sophisticated sex, you don't have sophisticated sex on a conference table in a room with only one unlocked door separating you from an hotel hall, he just – a few moments later she found herself sitting on the edge of the table while he penetrated her and she was holding to him like dear life, her face was burrowed on his shoulder and he was whispering things in her ear – she had no idea what – it didn't last long, but it was – just – so – yes, ladies and gentleman, sex is a great way to work out anger and to – to feel skin and heat and break barriers – and – to look at each other with nothing in your eyes but truth – no lie no pretense – no irony – to feel so safe and warm and – then they stayed unmoving in each other arms, for a long time, in a very scandalous and vaguely ridiculous state of undress.

"We didn't rent Pemberley from the Moretti," he whispered, in her ear, after a good minute. "They rented it. It's mine. Well, it belongs to my family – it has, for three generations."

Elizabeth laughed slowly, her face still hidden on his shoulder.

"Oh – of course. Of course, you'd have a mansion in Tuscany." She kissed him, softly, just below the ear. "Why was this information important just now?"

"I don't… know… Does it… Does our arrangement still hold?" His voice was almost shy. "Coffee? In Chicago?"

"Yes," she breathed, "Unless you've changed your mind?"

He had a short, strained laugh. "No. No, I haven't." He pulled back to look at her – to caress her face – his expression was serious.

"I just feel very silly," she admitted, (her face all red, of course – you know, the afterglow – on her, it was just – woosh,) "I mean, I just said – I just made that long speech – about how romantic and serious I was and how it took me a long time to – you know – and then…"

"Sure, yes, you're easy," he commented. "That is what I think of you now. You're easy to get. I've loved you for a year and a half – and after, what, months, of you hating me, a scathing rejection, one interminable e-mail, and two passionate declarations of love, I finally got you. That was definitely easy."

She kissed him, languorously – they both got a little lost in it – then, "Oh my God!" she cried, reality crashing down on her, "The plane! And my aunt will be back – and my dress is completely…"

She jumped down on the floor, good thing she had her suitcase in the lounge, then tried to smooth down her hair, protesting: "Two passionate declarations? I just remember the one."

He grabbed her by the waist and held her close – she felt his heart beating – then kissed her neck with so much tenderness, before he whispered, his voice breaking a little: "Just wait."


End file.
